


Crashing On Harbors

by skyline



Series: Kendall Is A Pirate, James Is A Princess [3]
Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Zombies, crowns, medieval times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are we having a coronation?” Kendall asks, laughter a high, flighty thing in his throat. It flaps its wings, steals his breath away. James hums and approaches. He stares at Kendall for this long moment that feels important. It stretches between them, tentative, and Kendall is caught in the color of James’s eyes. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for this boy. There isn’t a dragon or a zombie or a monster he wouldn’t slay in James’s honor. It’s a new and fragile feeling, something that lives in his blood and his heart and his mind. James settles the crown on Kendall’s head. The flimsy metal is light, but the gesture is heavy, and Kendall feels the crown weigh him down like it’s made of real gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crashing On Harbors

In a different world, responsible wouldn’t be a word that anyone would use to describe Kendall Knight. He’s a leader, yes, and he’s good at cleaning up messes. As long as they’re not his own.  
  
Problem is, he hates it.  
  
All he’s got is this; the toxic bay of Los Angeles and the familiar coastline of California. He’s got monsters and he’s got men, and he’s got families that need food and fresh water. He’s got to be responsible because there’s no one else to fill his shoes. In this world, Kendall tries so hard.  
  
And no one even appreciates it.  
  
“I want to go to Medieval Times,” Carlos whines.  
  
“No.”  
  
Kendall is reasonably certain that Medieval Times has already been looted at least fifty times over, but they’re not going to be looking for food or water or anything that anyone else would have sought out. What they need is clean, dry wood. The salt’s doing a number on the ferry, and while Logan has been patching what he can, there is no real substitute for raw materials. Most of the piers are already rotting, and the jacaranda trees in LA aren’t the best for building. Kendall doesn’t want to risk sinking on a trip up north. He’d seen commercials for the Medieval Times in Chicago, as a kid, and he remembers seeing lots of big wooden bleachers and pillars and a virtual forest of building supplies. He is a genius.  
  
Well, not by Logan’s standards, but Kendall is pretty sure that Logan is _actually_ a genius.  
  
“Not fair!”  
  
Kendall rolls his eyes, kicking his feet up on the railing of the ferry. “And yet my answer is still _no_.”  
  
“Just let him go,” Logan intones from the doorway. The wind is whipping up the waves, tossing them onto the lower decks of the boat. There’s a storm rolling in. The spray doesn’t reach the top deck, high as it is, but there’s still that infinitesimal chance. Statistically speaking, all it takes is a single drop of ocean water to turn a person into a slavering beast, and Logan’s really big on statistics. His hand darts out, gripping Carlos’s arm tight and pulling him back in. He glares at Kendall like he has a death wish.  
  
The accusation has been made before.  
  
Kendall lifts his face to the breeze, a cocky smile on his face. He likes to think he’s got this understanding with the ocean where they both like having him alive.  
  
“You don’t want him to go,” Kendall says pointedly. “Do you know what’s at Medieval Times?”  
  
Logan frowns at the coastline, where the building stands in shambles only a little ways inland.  
  
“Valuable raw materials?” He guesses.  
  
“Armor,” Carlos cheers.  
  
“Horses,” Kendall says bluntly. “Likely dead horses.”  
  
Carlos’s eyes get really wide and he whimpers, “Ponies?”  
  
Immediately, Logan’s arm goes around his shoulders. He ropes Carlos in close and presses a kiss to his temple, glaring at Kendall all the while. He hisses, “Why would you tell him that?”  
  
“Because it’s true. I seriously doubt anyone thought save the stables in the middle of the apocalypse. The poor beasts probably starved to  
death, if someone didn’t loot the place and eat them first.”  
  
Carlos makes a pitiful noise.  
  
“It’s okay,” Logan murmurs into his hair. “We’re going to leave the bad man now.”  
  
Kendall rolls his eyes. This is what he gets for telling the truth.  
  
Being the captain is hard.  
  
The thing is, Kendall worries. All the time, he worries.  
  
He doesn’t remember a lot about the plagues that destroyed most of Minnesota, or the firebombs they tried to use to unsuccessfully eliminate the contagion. He knows that it made people lose their minds. It wasn’t like the Splasher virus, which kills a person on contact; ding dong, no one home. This was something else, something that turned living, breathing human beings into monsters. There were rumors that they had lucid periods, even after they’d been infected. Kendall knows that James’s dad contracted it, after the town was bombed. After he’d seen his mother turn into a human torch. They’d been caught up in a horde of the diseased, and James had narrowly escaped. He’d watched from afar as his father mutated. Kendall knew it killed him never knowing if the man was dead or if he was still out there, somewhere; a blistered, psychotic ruin of a man.  
  
Maybe they’d find out one day.  
  
The end of the world had brought on a great many viruses and contagions, but what had happened in Minnesota was distinctive. And Kendall had heard stories that a horde of the diseased were coming west. It had been a whisper in San Francisco, a prayer in San Diego.  
  
Everyone was wondering whether or not to run.  
  
Kendall? He just worries. Panic is the kind of thing that ruins lives.  
  
The apocalypse might have begun with biological warfare, or it might have been a bad batch of tomatoes. It might have been a combination of both. Kendall’s mom told him that chaos broke out at three different points on the west coast, the east, and Middle America. She’d watched it on the news, watched the CDC try to wrangle the breakouts into something manageable. The country’s enemies had taken advantage, used the opportunity to attack, and blitzes were happening over LA and New York. Meanwhile different diseases formed and mutated, going on a rampage. It had driven the country into a state of mass panic, where everyone fired at everyone. The military tried to enact quarantines that didn’t work. People fled, bringing the terror to new shores; to Japan and India and Morocco. Eventually, everyone turned against each other. Civilization fell.  
  
There aren’t enough people left alive for that to happen again. But a mass horde of the diseased? Might make things crazy in Los Angeles.  
Kendall plans on being ready. If he has to whisk his mom, Katie, the Mitchells, and the Garcias off on his ferry boat to fucking Canada, he will. He needs to protect the people he loves, or what good is he?  
  
“Knock, knock.” It’s a quick rap on the wooden entryway and a familiar voice.  
  
Kendall cranes his head back to see James. He’s beautiful. His eyes are bright, his smile sweet, his hair wind tousled. He is tall and proud and tan. More than any of them, James is a product of his environment. When he walks towards Kendall, he trails the sky and the sea in every step that he takes.  
  
Sometimes Kendall wonders if he’d be so lovely or so fierce in a normal world. Would James still be so strong or so wild? Would he still want anything to do with Kendall?  
  
Doubtful.  
  
He treads two more steps and then he’s straddling Kendall’s lap, warm like sunshine in his arms. He presses tiny kisses against Kendall’s jaw line, warmth that flares up and melts away like sugar, dissolving against his skin.  
  
“Are we seriously going to Medieval Times?” James murmurs against the corner of Kendall’s lips. There’s excitement in his voice.  
  
“The horses are dead, James.”  
  
James’s face crumples. “Geez, buzzkill. Why are you so moody?”  
  
Kendall considers. “Logan called me a bad man.”  
  
“Kendall. You are a bad man.” James kisses him soundly, until their mouths are slick and wet. “But you’ve got a good heart.”  
  
James’s tongue curls soft against his, the kiss ebbing and then flowing like the tide. Beneath the two of them, the boat rocks. Kendall isn’t sure about his heart, but he’s inclined to believe James. There isn’t anyone he trusts more on this Earth.  
  
“Seriously, though,” Kendall breaks the kiss. “We need supplies. We don’t have time to fool around.”  
  
James gives Kendall this oh-is-it-serious-business-time-now frown and asks, “How do you even know they’ll have what we’re looking for? Did you ever go to Medieval Times as a kid?”  
  
“Nah. Didn’t have one in Minnesota. Did you?”  
  
“Yeah. My grandma lived out here before the world got slammed. It was fun. My mom had this thing for knights.” James laughs abruptly, tilting his head. “Maybe I do too. C’mere, Knight.”  
  
He pulls Kendall in close, breathing hot on his lips before brushing their mouths together again.  
  
“You are such a corny bastard,” Kendall mumbles, wrinkling his nose, but he’s pleased by the allusion. He’d look great in armor.  
  
James kisses him pretty soundly, bucking their hips together for a few blissful seconds before he pulls away and say in his bossiest voice, “Now get off the deck. I’m not into necrophilia.”  
  
“We’re fine up here,” Kendall says, noncommittally. James glances out at the water and then back at Kendall’s face, something flickering across his features, moving like a wave from his cheekbones to the bridge of his nose to his eyes, darkening them infinitesimally. He wraps his arms around Kendall’s neck, hugging him tight and says, “Yeah, okay. We can stay.”  
  
“You’re not scared we’re both going to turn into Shells?”  
  
“Well.” James kisses his temple. “If we’re going to die, we might as well make sure we’re doing something interesting in the process.”  
  
“Like?” Kendall asks, heart lifting. James hitches his hips forwards and down, creating soft friction against the front of Kendall’s jeans. He presses his mouth against Kendall’s throat and mumbles, “We’ll come up with something.”  
  
James always knows what he needs. Even when Kendall isn’t sure himself.

 

\---

  
They dock the ferry in the marina near Seal Beach, leaving Logan and Carlos to stand guard, despite their protests. It’s a trek to Buena Park, and mostly they have to avoid the big roads. The San Gabriel River Freeway is owned almost exclusively by one of the big tribunals, one that prides itself on the kind of shoot-now-ask-questions later frontier justice that usually ends up getting people a whole lot of dead. But even avoiding the 605, James and Kendall have to squeeze past El Dorado Regional Park, a mass grave site with little cheer, and the Los Alamitos Army Airport; a small slice of the cannibal lands. It’s not safe.  
  
They’re quiet while they walk, drinking precious water from leather flasks and taking frequent breaks. Neither of them peeks into the empty store fronts or the quiet, quaint houses that line the ‘burbs. It’s all so much dead space, and besides, it’s depressing.  
  
Kendall and James stride by entire shanty towns, lean-tos and hovels where people have formed tiny little communities. Rats scurry by their feet, scavenging the remains of civilization, and no one spares them a glance.  
  
It’s what they’re all doing, humans and animals; picking through the ruins.  
  
It’s too quiet, and Kendall is used to it, but it makes him sad. People still want to laugh. They just can’t remember how. “You know what you’re looking for, right?”  
  
“Mahogany, pine, birch…and any usable metal,” James confirms as they walk. “Check.”  
  
Kendall nods, satisfied, but then James coughs and says, “How am I supposed to know what birch looks like again?”  
  
Eh. So they’re not exactly woodsmen. Kendall tries his best to repeat what Logan told him about the differences between colors and textures of various trees. “Oh, and keep any eye out for any wiring that’s still good. Logan wants to whip up a deep sea- something.”  
  
Logan’s been toying with the idea of rigging up a fishing net and trying to catch poor little sea creatures. It’s ludicrous, considering that he’s terrified of getting anywhere near the water. Also, they have no idea if they’ll be able to actually eat the fish they catch. Will cooking the things eliminate the Splasher virus? Maybe. Kendall’s content to let Logan try, at the very least. His experiments keep him sane.  
  
Medieval Times is off what used to be the Santa Ana Freeway, a dangerous obstacle course in and of itself, what with the privateers running the show. Kendall and James duck under overpasses and wave towards the main road, populated by rusted cars and overgrown weeds. Everything’s being reclaimed by the land.  
  
One of the doors to the place is hanging by the hinges, blown wide open. The other’s lying on the floor, caked with dirt and old boot prints. It doesn’t look like anyone has disturbed the site in a long time.  
  
Kendall’s careful to avoid making fresh footprints on the door, stepping around the edges and corners as stealthily as he can. There’s no need to alert anyone to their presence.  
  
The highwaymen are always looking for target practice.  
  
“Alright. You take that way, I’ll take the left. We’ll meet back at the arena in…half an hour?” James nods his agreement. They split up to explore.  
  
There’s not much to see. The place is decrepit, but Kendall is used to that. Nothing is brand new or shiny in his world. It’s all just so much decay.  
  
And a lot of plaster façades. Kendall’s more than a little disappointed. He makes his way back to the huge dust bowl of an arena at the right time, mentally assembling his list of things they’re going to need to pack up. There’s some good timber hidden in the back, beneath the general décor of _garish_ and the more elaborate spots of _hideous_. But the sound system is mostly intact. Kendall knows fuck all about wiring, but he figures Logan will probably want the whole thing. It ends up being a decently sized list actually, and he thinks they might need to rope Mr. Garcia and Mr. Mitchell into rigging up something to drag it all back to the ferry.  
  
Kendall forgets his line of thought the second he spots James, standing in the middle of the arena, leaning against a wooden rail. He’s tossing something in the air, over and over again. The motion is hypnotic.  
  
“Find anything good?” Kendall calls out.  
  
“I dunno, dude. It’s a lot of fake stone.” James knocks a fist against one of the rail, frowning all the while. “We might have better luck dismantling a house. You?”  
  
“Yeah. Uh. Don’t look in the stables.”  
  
“Not the ponies,” James groans, half-serious.  
  
“What have you got there?” Kendall asks, getting closer. He can see the object now, clearly.  
  
It’s a crown.  
  
“A present for you.” James spins the thing around on his index finger. The gold paint catches the light, sparkling, even in the middle of the dusty building.  
  
“Are we having a coronation?” Kendall asks, laughter a high, flighty thing in his throat. It flaps its wings, steals his breath away. James hums and approaches. He stares at Kendall for this long moment that feels important. It stretches between them, tentative, and Kendall is caught in the color of James’s eyes.  
  
There is nothing he wouldn’t do for this boy. There isn’t a dragon or a zombie or a monster he wouldn’t slay in James’s honor. It’s a new and fragile feeling, something that lives in his blood and his heart and his mind.   
  
James settles the crown on Kendall’s head. The flimsy metal is light, but the gesture is heavy, and Kendall feels the crown weigh him down like it’s made of real gold.  
  
“It looks good on you,” James says decisively.  
  
And then he falls to his knees.  
  
“What are you doing?” Kendall asks, a bit hypnotized by the movement of James’s fingers over the front of his jeans.  
  
James smirks. “Making an offering.”  
  
“That’s gods, James. Not kings.”  
  
“Oh, so you’re a king now? Just because you give a guy a crown.” He sucks one of Kendall’s fingers into his mouth and says, “Let me prostrate myself before you, my liege.”  
  
They’ve had sex in weirder places. Sometimes, Kendall thinks that death makes James horny. Other times, he knows that it’s the reminder that the both of them are still alive that really gets him going.  
  
Why waste time when you never know what tomorrow’s going to bring?  
  
Still. It’s Medieval Times. Kendall isn’t exactly comfortable with this. But there really is nothing he wouldn’t do for James. He lets his best friend strip him until Kendall is standing naked in an empty arena, feet stirring up dust. He tries to look tall and proud, but mostly he feels exposed and vulnerable. Even though he’s been living in the ruins of humanity for over a decade, it’s hard to shake the concept of people; living, walking, existing.  
  
If someone were to stroll into this wreck of a kingdom, he’d be completely exposed.  
  
James sucks a kiss into his collarbone, walking him back, back, back until his shoulders bump into something hard. “Kendall,” he says, low and rough. He’s still fully clothed, and that’s not fair at all. Kendall’s cock is rubbing against denim, and it’s good and bad at the same time.  
  
Kendall reaches between them, trying to get the front of James’s jeans undone. He can feel James’s dick, the heat and the press of it against his palms. He kisses soft against James’s throat, tongue dipping out to catch at sea salt and sweat, at the taste that is both James and the world, James and ruined things.  
  
Kendall frees James’s dick from his jeans, kneading his fingers against the flesh. James makes this tiny, whimpering noise that echoes louder than it should in the empty arena, and Kendall stiffens.  
  
“Relax. No one will hear us,” James says lowly. “Unless you want them to.”  
  
He presses his mouth against Kendall’s, alternating pressure; soft and hard and then something in between, his tongue curving wet and fighting for dominance. James’s fingers grip firm against Kendall’s naked thigh, and those fingers, _fuck_ , those fingers.  
  
Kendall lets James steer the ferry sometimes, just so he can watch those fingers on the wheel, smooth skin in stark contrast with the knotted wood. He likes to watch James’s fingers against his skin, the contrast in their tans and the scars with stories James has never told him. He’s got a million trapped images of James’s fingers in his head, the way they cradle the neck of Kendall’s worn out guitar and the way they look when he’s standing up on deck, holding the railing and watching the horizon like he actually expects something to appear out there.  
  
More than anything, Kendall likes the way James’s fingers feel against his skin, and he’s scrabbling for purchase, for friction, for a way to get closer. James groans, scraping his nails against Kendall’s other thigh, and it all devolves from there.  
  
Jeans rucked down around his thighs, James props Kendall up against a moth eaten banner, using the siding of the arena as leverage.  
The material crinkles against Kendall’s bare skin, and he shivers. He’s got his legs loosely wrapped around James’s waist, but he can’t focus, not completely, and James knows it.  
  
He plays those stupid, gorgeous fingers against Kendall’s ass, a touch of warmth and a nail nicking muscle. Kendall wants it. He tries to buck back into it, but he doesn’t really have a full range of motion at his command.  
  
“Patience,” James orders, a smirk ghosting over his face.  
  
“I thought I was in charge.”  
  
“You’re always in charge,” James murmurs. “Don’t you ever get sick of it?”  
  
All the time. Kendall is rigid all over, listening, trying to hear something past the sound of his hand on James’s dick and the clink of James’s belt when it hits the stud in his jeans or the rock wall façade. He can’t. There aren’t any other sounds to be heard. James licks a stripe up Kendall’s neck. His tongue shouldn’t feel so obscene when they’re already at the good part; cocks brushing against each other, James’s finger probing at his entrance, but it does. Kendall’s got this thing about his neck, about James’s mouth _on_ his neck, and James is a clever little bitch. He figured it out two seconds into their metamorphosis from best friends to lovers, and he takes advantage of it constantly; sucking against the hollows of Kendall’s throat or his pulse points or nipping just under his Adam’s apple just to hear him moan. Sometimes Kendall will let James fuck him from behind, and James will lick lazy letters against the back of his neck, places no one else ever touches except the sun.  
  
James pulls back, watching him for a second. It’s weird, just being watched. Back when they first started fucking, Kendall was the one who dictated the things they did. When he was in control, he could hide the flush high on his cheeks or the embarrassment he felt; letting another human being see what he looked like turned on and wanting. He could bury his face into the curve of James’s shoulder and pretend there wasn’t anything like intimacy involved in the pulse of his cock half-sheathed in James’s ass.  
  
Things are so different now.  
  
The intensity of James’s eyes on Kendall’s face is still scary, still a very real kind of terrifying in that Kendall worries he’ll be found wanting. Beauty isn’t a necessary commodity in the aftermath of civilization, but it still has value. James is one of the most gorgeous people Kendall has ever met. And he’s smart, smarter than he ever gives himself credit for. He could do something with his life, climb the ranks in a tribunal, do something, do _anything_ away from the ferry and the danger and Kendall. When Kendall meets James’s gaze, he’s thinking all of that, wondering if James can see it somewhere beneath the desire and the challenge.  
  
He purposely tries to let it show.  
  
Learning to back down has been a part of the rocky trial and error process of their relationship, because Kendall has trouble letting James see even a little bit past the fences and barriers and barbed wire around his heart; the virtual minefield that he’s created to keep people away. But he’s learning and he’s trying, and right now he wills it all right out into the open, hoping James will see. Hoping James will know how much Kendall trusts him.  
  
How much Kendall lo-  
  
“Let go,” James instructs, bringing his hand to his mouth. “You don’t need to be in charge of anything right now.”  
  
James wraps his lips over his own knuckles, his tendons, the places where his fingerprints rest. The same fingerprints he’ll leave inside of Kendall; evidence of all the places he’s touched. Kendall watches his mouth and thinks of lazy days when they’re coasting down the shoreline, James’s mouth hot and tight around his dick. It twitches to remind him it’s there, barely getting anything like enough friction with James half hard and hanging out of his jeans, skin just barely touching his. Kendall tries to hitch forwards, to emulate the dry spark between them, but James just laughs.  
  
It’s loud; it’s so fucking loud. Kendall flinches, and James says, “Relax.”  
  
Yeah. Kendall doesn’t know how to do that. He’d like to pretend they’re in another world together, one where kings and queens and peasants exist instead of dead-eyed zombies. One where the worst thing a plague can do is kill you. But he’s never been a big fan of make believe.  
  
James runs his wet fingertip around the rim of Kendall’s asshole, making Kendall squirm and okay, not fair. Total terrorist tactic. Kendall is about to announce that out loud, but James presses in, one digit and then two, and then three. He’s not rushing; he’s just being an impudent asshole. Kendall can tell by the way his eyebrows arch, but the way the corners of his lips twitch wickedly. And Kendall’s inner control freak wants to care, wants to berate James for being such a stellar jackass, but most of his being is focused on James, on the movement of his fingers; twisting, sliding, fucking into him.  
  
He curses out loud, a long drawn out word that does not echo or bounce back at him because Kendall still has common sense. And that doesn’t seem to please James at all, who has gone from looking enthralled with his own majesty to annoyed in seconds flat. “Louder.”  
  
“What?” Kendall gasps. He can feel James twist his wrists; switch his fingers up, a thrust and a weird pressure that hits him in all the right places.  
  
“Louder,” James emphasizes, and now he’s withdrawing his hand, stroking a line up under Kendall’s balls before repositioning himself.  
He shifts Kendall’s weight higher on his hips and it cannot even be close to comfortable, but James doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with it. He cups Kendall’s ass, his dick an insistent press against muscle. Kendall resents the tease, resents that James can leave him feeling empty, gone all achy and hollow.  
  
James’s eyes flicker closed and open, fast as a switchblade. His grin turns razor sharp, and for this one long second there’s nothing but the ragged edge of their breathing and the lust pounding like a drum through Kendall’s veins. Then James fucks straight into Kendall in one long, easy thrust.  
  
Kendall is loud.  
  
He can’t be anything but loud with the ghosts of battles fought for cheering crowds, fake and surreal, floating behind his shoulder and the very real feel of James moving inside of him. He knows there’s a reason, a damn good reason not to yell out when James’s dick trails like electric across his prostate, and he knows there’s a reason that no one can see him reduced to this; to a whimpering, simpering fucking mess, a boy in a crown getting nailed against a wall. He knows that.  
  
But he’s having trouble recalling what either of those reasons is.  
  
The pace James sets is relentless, and Kendall can’t, won’t fall to pieces right here, right now. But James’s fingers; those lovely, ridiculously sexy fingers are wrapped around his cock, thumbing over the head and skidding down the shaft of it, turning Kendall’s bones to liquid. James’s dick, his lovely, ridiculously hard dick is this actual weight inside of him, and every pump of James’s hips is hotter, deeper, making the whole world hazy. It’s like Kendall’s vision is unwinding and he’s folding in on himself; on James and the places where they’re melting into each other.  
  
“Just let go. Kendall,” James hisses. His lips are red, bitten, swollen with kisses. There’s a speck of dust floating near his ear, lit by sunlight. Kendall’s belly is molten, his balls pulling tight. The metal crown tilts forward on his forehead, and James’s long fingers twist around the shaft of his dick. Kendall twines his fingers in James’s hair, his forearms resting against James’s shoulders. He’s stuck between the checkered banner of a long dead knight and the unstoppable force James becomes when he wants something, when he looks at Kendall, eyes ablaze, like he’s the only thing in the world worth wanting. A whole horde of the diseased, of zombies, and of monsters could storm the arena right that second and Kendall won’t be able to do anything at all except clutch James more tightly and take it.  
  
So he does. He clings to James, his last anchor in this world, and when he comes, it’s with a shout so loud they probably can hear it in the cannibal lands.  
  
And James; James rides him through it, thrusting up into Kendall until he falls right over the edge. It’s a tidal wave of warmth inside of him and the music of James’s heartbeat that brings it all home.  
  
Kendall doesn’t let go. Even when James actually slumps to his knees there on the dirt and the dust and the ruins of their fake castle, Kendall clings to him.  
  
The future is a big, terrifying possibility in the air, but James is the person who makes it okay.  
  
As long as James keeps the sky and the sea in his eyes and Kendall’s name on his lips, it will always turn out okay.


End file.
